


Here's to the mess we make

by orphan_account



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Sickfic, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 07:39:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13497610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ryan’s ill, and it sucks.





	Here's to the mess we make

Ryan’s ill, and it sucks.

He’s lying in bed, blankets drawn up to his chin, and he’s absolutely fucking _miserable_. It is, as far as he’s concerned, the _worst_ kind of illness, by which he means that it’s an illness in which he’s so ill he can’t even watch _Paddington_ or browse mindlessly through the internet without feeling like all the light and sound and colours are going to make him puke, but it’s also an illness in which he isn’t so ill that he just sleeps constantly. It’s one of the god-awful, god-forsaken, in-between illnesses, and Ryan’s been stuck on the borderline between ‘exhausted’ and ‘feeling like he chugged twelve cups of coffee’ for the last several hours, lying on his side in bed and waiting for his brain to get bored enough for him to fall back to sleep so he can wake up that afternoon or that evening or that night and, possibly, feel a little bit better.

Fuck, but he doesn’t even know what _time_ it is. It’s dark outside – or at least, he _thinks_ it’s dark outside – but the curtains are drawn and he can barely keep his eyes open and even then it’s still winter which means it gets dark _stupidly_ early, which is _ridiculous_ and is just throwing his sense of time off even more, and he’s been dozing on and off since he first ‘woke up’ this morning and he just really, _really,_ doesn’t know what time it is.

Normally, this would not be a problem.

Normally, Ryan would be content to wait his illness out, ignoring the time completely and instead focusing on sleeping and eating and drinking and occasionally downing more cold medicine, but this time is _different_.

This time, he’s waiting for Shane to come home.

Well, not ‘home’. Not really. Because Shane still has his own apartment, and Ryan still has his, but they both have several outfits worth of clothes and several pairs of underwear and a toothbrush at the other’s place, so the line between what’s his apartment and what’s Shane’s is beginning to get a little blurred these days. Which is nice, it really is, but it also- it also means that right now, Ryan has no idea which of their apartments Shane is going to go to once he finishes up at work. Because he could come to Ryan’s, and let himself in with the key that Ryan got cut for him several months ago, or he could go to his own place, and be comfortable and quiet and safely out of the biohazard zone that is Ryan’s illness.

Ryan really, _really_ hopes that Shane comes back to his.

But the thing is-

 _The thing is_ , that Ryan’s beginning to think that he may have texted Shane earlier specifically telling him _not_ to come over. He’s disgusting, and he feels like absolute shit, and he can’t imagine that he’d be a particularly pleasant person to hang out with right now, seeing how all he wants to do is sleep and complain and then sleep some more, so it makes sense that if he _had_ texted Shane at all today, he would’ve texted him to tell him to keep as far away from Ryan as he could, lest he contract Ryan’s horrific illness himself. It _sounds_ like something Ryan would do.

The issue is, however, that Ryan has been drifting in and out of sleep all day, and the lines between ‘reality’, ‘dream’, and ‘weird as all fuck fever dream imagination _bullshit_ ’ have started to get pretty blurred. Hell, up until what he thinks was an hour ago he’d been _very_ certain that he had, at some point, got out of bed, gone to his tiny kitchen, and made himself a sandwich, and had only realised that he hadn’t, in fact, done any of that when he’d reached out for the aforementioned sandwich to discover that it very definitely _was not there_.

That had really fucked with him, to put it simply.

And now he’s lying in bed, squinting up at his bedroom ceiling, debating with himself whether he should find his phone and check to see if he _had_ texted Shane or not, or whether he should continue to try his very best to get some sleep. He feels he’ll probably end up trying to check his phone, because- well, because he _wants to fucking know_. He wants to know if he should expect his boyfriend to come round at some point. He wants to know if Shane replied. He wants to know if he even sent the texts in the first place or if he just _imagined_ it all, but in order to do _any_ of that he’d have to move.

And moving… moving sounds like an absolutely _awful_ idea at the moment, because every single one of Ryan’s limbs feels like it’s been filled with lead, set on fire, and then buried under artic ice for three months.

It fucking _sucks_.

Ryan groans, and rolls over.

He feels _awful_. His skin feels clammy and his eyes feel like they’ve been dredged through sand, hot and grimy and uncomfortably dry no matter how often he blinks. The pillow underneath his head feels too warm and cloying and like it’s made from both cotton candy _and_ glue at the same time, and he has no idea how the fuck that’s meant to work but he also feels a bit like his head might be turning into cement so he doesn’t really focus on the pillow for too long.

He shuffles around beneath the blankets in an attempt to find a marginally more comfortable position, and discovers comfort for all of two seconds before his body heat turns the freshly discovered cool bit of the blanket to lava, and leaves him feeling miserable all over again.

He _burning_. He knows, logically, that that _is_ kind of what happens when you have a fever, that the body does heat up in an attempt to kill the virus off (or something like that, he’s not a doctor), but knowing that doesn’t make him feel any better. He just feels hot and profoundly miserable, and with every second that passes he thinks he can feel the little blanket-burrito he’s wrapped himself in start to approach a temperature akin to that of a thermonuclear reactor.

Ryan grits his teeth, and resolutely _does not_ kick the covers off.

He knows not to do that. He’s been told several times in the course of his life the importance of ‘sweating the fever out’, of staying hot and miserable _beneath_ the blankets so that you don’t freeze to death outside of them, but he’s seriously beginning to wonder how much the people telling him that actually _knew_. Because he’s pretty certain now that nothing, _nothing_ , could possibly feel worse that what he’s feeling right now.

He feels like he’s fucking _melting_. He knows it’s just sweat that’s coating his body from head to toe, but it’s not hard to imagine that it’s actually his _blood_ , heated up so much the liquid has become thin enough to seep through his pores, his bones turning to mush as his whole body simultaneously burns and melts and it’s _awful_ , he feels _awful_ , he hates everything about this and he needs to get these blankets off _right the fuck now_.

He thrashes around a little, and then he thrashes around a _lot_ , and after a few long minutes he manages to kick the covers off completely.

Beautiful, wonderfully cool air sweeps over his body. The sweat coating his skin cools. His disgusting, sweaty pyjamas feel marginally less disgusting.

Ryan realises that he has just made what is possibly the biggest mistake of his _life_.

Because if he thought that melting alive beneath the blankets was bad, _this_ is a million times worse.

He’s _freezing_. He’s absolutely fucking _freezing_. He feels like he’s been chucked straight into a frozen lake in the middle of winter and then thrown directly into an ice bath after that. He’s not sure he can feel his fingers anymore. He’s not sure he _has_ fingers anymore. He thinks he might have just set the new world record for _time taken for an idiot called Ryan Bergara to catch hypothermia_.

He needs his blankets back. He needs his blankets back _now_.

And his stupid _fucking_ limbs seem to have completely forgotten how to do their jobs, because it takes him _at least_ another five minutes of feebly patting around and tugging on what he thought was fabric but is _clearly_ actually bizarrely flexible rock to cover himself back up with the blankets again, and he can’t help but give a little whine once they’re safely tucked up under his chin again.

Because they’re _cold_.

 _Of course_ they’re cold.

The blankets are cold and Ryan is ill and the universe obviously hates him in this moment.

He thinks back to the good old days of ten minutes ago, where the blankets may have been far too hot for the average human body to deal with but at least they weren’t trying to freeze you alive, and, slowly, rolls back over onto his side. It’s a little more comfortable like this. Barely.

Moments pass. Very slowly, and then very quickly, the blankets warm back up.

Ryan’s really not sure which temperature range he actually preferred. He’s learned his lesson, though, because this time, when he starts to feel like there’s an actual risk that his bones will start melting or that he’ll drown in his own sweat, he resolutely keeps the blankets on.

He keeps them on, and wills himself to go to sleep, and slowly comes to the realisation that his pillow, his _wonderful_ , well-behaved pillow, which has never adjusted its temperature in its _life_ , has suddenly decided that it wants to be where the cool kids are and is slowly applying the temperature of the sun to Ryan’s cheek.

God _fucking_ damn it.

He shuffles around, reaching out with weak, _useless_ arms to pick up his pillow and turn it over to the other side, and flops back down.

For a brief moment, he feels a little better.

The cotton of the pillowcase is blissfully cool underneath his cheek, and he can’t help the little sigh that he gives when he feels it. He wants to curl into it, wants to press his whole damn body into that tiny patch of coolness so that he can stop feeling like someone set embers to chasing just below his skin, but the second he lifts his hand to press his forearm against the pillowcase the moment is shattered.

The pillowcase is _too damn cold_ , and now Ryan just wants to fucking cry.

It’s _awful_. Being ill is awful, and the pillowcase is awful, and Ryan doesn’t _get_ why his face thinks it’s the best thing it’s ever felt but his whole arm is suddenly freezing the moment he frees it from the blanket and places it down on the pillow instead. He can literally see the goosebumps raising all along his arm and now his right cheek is comfortable but his left cheek feels horribly, uncomfortably dry and his whole body is too fucking warm except for his stupid goddamn arm which has decided that anywhere outside of the safe enclave of his blanket-nest is clearly the fucking _artic_.

Ryan squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and _wishes_ he could fall asleep as fast as Shane can.

He hates this. He _hates_ this. He wishes he could hate it more but he’s too ill and tired and uncomfortable to muster enough energy to hate his illness as much as he feels he should. Because it sucks. It _really_ fucking sucks. He feels gross, his skin too clammy and his eyes too dry and everything smells like sweat and sickness and he _hates_ it. The pillow, which was only moments ago so wonderfully cool is already too hot again, and it’s simultaneously too fluffy and not fluffy enough and he feels like his spine is made of glass and he _hates_ it.

He thinks a few tears manage to escape, just from how uncomfortable and shit everything is, and that’s when the front door opens.

For a moment, Ryan panics.

He doesn’t- he can’t think of why anyone would be in his house, why anyone would _want_ to be in his house. _He_ lives here, no one else, and it’s- it’s gotta be, like, midday, or early afternoon, which means that even if Shane _had_ got Ryan’s half-incoherent, fever-fuelled texts that were 90% Ryan complaining about being sick and 10% Ryan telling Shane not to visit under any circumstances because he was disgusting, _even if_ Shane had somehow got those texts he should still be at work. He shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be standing in the doorway to Ryan’s room like he so clearly is, haloed in a light so bright it makes Ryan squint in confusion before he realises that it’s just the hallway light and _not_ the actual, literal light of heaven.

God, he _hates_ being sick.

“Shane?” he mumbles, still not entirely convinced that it is actually his boyfriend standing in the doorway, and the actual literal light of heaven dims as the door in front of it is shut, and the possibly-angel, possibly-Shane, very-possibly-fever-hallucination speaks.

“Yeah,” it says, and Ryan feels every cell in his body relax at once because he would know Shane’s voice _anywhere_. He lowers himself back down to the bed, only now realising just how spinny and woozy he’d made himself just from sitting up for a few moments to look at the door. “It’s me.”

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asks, or more realistically mumbles. He’s still squinting a little, because even now that the room is wonderfully dark again his glasses are still on the bedside table, and he simply doesn’t feel like he has the energy – or possibly the limbs – to reach out and put them on.

“I came to check up on you,” Shane replies, and Ryan can’t stop the dopey, love-sick smile that crosses his face the moment he hears those words. _Fuck_. He loves this man. He loves this man so much. He loves that this man saw Ryan’s (possibly non-existent) texts telling him how disgusting he was and how Shane should stay far, far away until Ryan was better, and thought _screw it, I’m going to make sure that my boyfriend is alright anyway_.

And he _knows_ that Shane must’ve thought that, because Ryan can practically hear his train of thought in his voice.

Shane’s voice is _quiet_. It’s often quiet, despite what a lot of their fans would expect, because despite how loud and brash Shane is when it comes to demons and ghouls and ghosts, he really is quite a quiet, timid guy at heart. He’s _gentle_ , and sweet, and so goddamn caring that it never ceases to amaze Ryan and even now, even when Ryan’s brain feels half-melted and he’s only barely keeping track of what’s actually _real_ , he can still hear the soft concern and care and love in Shane voice and know, without a doubt, that it exists.

Shane’s voice is no fever-dream, and Ryan thinks he would kiss Shane right now if he wasn’t so ill and if he wasn’t so worried about Shane catching whatever horrific illness Ryan is currently carrying.

He would also have to know where exactly Shane _is_ in order to do that.

There’s a shuffle of movement in the darkened room, some sounds that could possibly be footsteps, and then suddenly a heavy weight sets itself down on the side of Ryan’s bed, and Ryan feels himself start to slide towards it like it’s a black hole. He thinks it’s probably Shane. He’s not entirely sure.

He’s also not sure if everything he’s feeling is because of the illness or not. He thinks it _might_ be because of the illness, but it could also very plausibly be because his boyfriend has suddenly transformed into a being of pure antimatter, and now Ryan’s being inextricably pulled towards him like gravity has just shifted it’s focus point and decided that Ryan Bergara needs to be forced against Shane Madej’s side right _now_.

He only realises that he’s actually just falling over when Shane catches him.

“Woah,” Shane says, and suddenly there’s a hand wrapped firm and certain around Ryan’s forearm, one arm snaking around his waist to stabilise him, and he hears Shane give a soft laugh against his ear. It’s nice. It’s _confusing_. “Hey there, buddy. Can’t have you falling over, now, can we?”

Ryan frowns. He’s not quite sure how to respond to that. It’s not helped that Shane’s words seem to be arriving at his brain at different speeds, building up like a glitchy, static-filled signal. “…No?” he says eventually, not at all sure if it’s the right thing to say, but Shane clearly seems to think that it’s acceptable at the very least, because he laughs again, soft and gentle, and starts carefully lying Ryan back down in bed.

Which just shows that Shane is clearly a genius, because Ryan feels infinitely less woozy and dizzy the moment his back hits the mattress, and he can’t _believe_ he didn’t think about lying back down sooner. Shane’s amazing. Shane’s wonderful. Shane is WebMD as a person because _wow_ , he’s been at Ryan’s place for all of two minutes and he’s _already_ stopped Ryan from falling over _and_ made him feel loads better just by lying him down.

What a man.

Ryan tries his very best to articulate that thought, but it comes out more as an unintelligible mumble. No matter. He’ll just tell Shane how he’s definitely WebMD later.

A few moments pass as Shane gets him settled, re-plumping his pillow for him and carefully tucking Ryan back under the blankets, and somehow Shane’s presence alone is enough to make Ryan feel noticeably less miserable than he felt before. It’s like he can physically _feel_ Shane’s care through every one of his actions, like the affection in his light, gentle touches and quiet murmurs is actually seeping through Ryan’s skin as if it could fight the virus in his body for him, and he just has to smile at the thought of that. Because he is, of course, visualising Shane’s affection as actual tiny little Shane Madej’s storming through his body, punching little virus monsters whenever they meet them.

It’s enough to make Ryan giggle a little against the pillow, and he only shakes his head at Shane’s confused, enquiring frown. He’ll tell Shane about it later. He’s got stuff to ask him first.

Like how the fuck he got to Ryan’s apartment when he should _very clearly_ still be at work.

Ryan shuffles around a little, and rolls back over onto his side. It’s easier to see Shane like this, and it just feels better. More comfortable. More natural. He’s sure there’s some science behind that somewhere.

He clears his throat.

“How’d you- how’d-“ He trails off, somewhat unsure of where he was even going with that thought, and waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the hallway. “ _Door_.”

Shane laughs. “You gave me a key, Ryan, remember?”

Ryan frowns, and swats Shane lightly. He’s not even sure if it hits. “I know _that_ ,” he grumbles, “Was just wondering- you have work.”

“Ryan,” Shane says softly, and reaches out to run his fingers through Ryan’s hair, scratching lightly at the back of his scalp in just the way that he knows Ryan adores. “Baby. It’s six PM.”

… It’s _what_.

Ryan very nearly blacks out for a second with how fast he sits upright, reaching out to fumble around blindly on the nightstand until his hand hits what he thinks is his phone. He picks it up, turns it on, hisses at how goddamn fucking _bright_ the screen is – and seriously, who the fuck decided that phone screens should be _that_ fucking bright, it’s fucking ridiculous – and blinks owlishly when he sees the time.

It is, as Shane said, six PM.

Which makes exactly _zero_ goddamn sense.

Because- because it had been _light_. Ryan distinctly remembers it being light. He distinctly remembers lying in bed, feeling miserable, and looking at the light leaking in from around his curtains and thinking _Man, I should get those replaced_. He _knows_ he remembers that, and he’s even mostly sure that it wasn’t a fever dream either.

And sure, he’s well aware that he probably slept at some point, and that time _probably_ passed somewhere in the midst of his illness, but even then he last remembers seeing the time as being something like one in the afternoon, and he really can’t bring himself to believe that he managed to sleep on and off for _five hours_. That’s- it’s preposterous. He’d been so painfully aware of just _how_ awake he’s been for what feels like the last few hours that he can hardly believe that both his phone and Shane are telling the truth.

But they have to be, because Shane wouldn’t lie to him when he’s sick.

“Ryan,” Shane’s saying, and Ryan’s wondering how many times Shane’s said his name, because his ears are ringing a little and even now Shane’s voice still sounds a little muffled, muted like he’s been submerged underwater. “ _Ryan_. Lie down, okay? I came here as soon as I finished work, alright? I hit some traffic, that’s why I’m here a little later than normal.”

Shane’s hands are on his shoulders again, pushing him back down against the mattress, and Ryan’s not sure when they started doing that. He feels he should be able to notice when his boyfriend starts grabbing his shoulders, but evidently not. He turns his head slightly, blinking at Shane even as he gets comfortably nestled in against the pillows once again. He feels he needs to say something. He _wants_ to say something. He wants to ask Shane what happened to time.

“… But it was _light_ ,” he says, and immediately wants to hit himself.

Shane, thankfully, doesn’t seem to care that Ryan is apparently completely incapable of forming sentences that actually convey what he wants them to, because he just smiles a little, and brushes Ryan’s horrible, sweaty hair off his forehead.

“Yeah,” he says softly, and even in the dim, barely-there light of the bedroom Ryan can see Shane’s slight smile, “Yeah, it was, but I’m pretty certain you’ve been dozing on and off all day, baby. You sent me a few texts.”

Ha, Ryan _knew_ it! _Take that, fever-dream_.

“I mean,” Shane continues, “They were mostly gibberish, but I figured from the timestamps when you’d been asleep."

Ok, wow, _rude_. Rude and uncalled for. Ryan is _quite_ certain that he did not send his boyfriend _gibberish_ , thank you very much. His texts may have been a little sloppier than usual, sure, but he still remembers squinting very closely at his screen and spending a fair amount of time carefully crafting each message before finally sending them.

So he says as much, and Shane laughs again.

“They were,” Shane says, between quiet chuckles, “Ry, I love you, but these texts were- they were _garbage!_ ”

“Hey!” Ryan protests weakly, and turns his head aside to cough before continuing. “I _tried_. I’m _ill_.”

Shane smiles, and reaches out to start running a hand through Ryan’s hair again. “I know,” he says, and his voice is pitched in that low, soothing way that he does sometimes that never fails to make Ryan feel calm and relaxed. “I know, baby. They were just kinda funny, is all I’m saying.”

Ryan frowns. His illness should not be funny.

Shane sees his expression, and raises an eyebrow in response. “Oh, you don’t believe me?” he asks, and starts fishing in his pocket for his phone. His other hand doesn’t leave Ryan’s head, instead continuing to pet his hair in slow, soothing motions, and Ryan knows that if he had any more energy he’d been pushing up into that contact as much as he could. But upwards movement is _hard_ , and his limbs still feel like lead, and it’s so much easier to instead shift his body a little, and curl around Shane’s back like a comma.

Shane is solid and _real_ in that way that fever-sharp things aren’t, and it’s wonderful. Ryan can feel the solidity of his back even through the layers of blankets that he’s wrapped himself in, and for some absurd reason he finds that almost as comforting as Shane’s actual words and the care and concern he can hear in them. Shane’s _real_. Shane is real, and he’s here, and he’s preparing to mock Ryan’s fever-inspired text messages like a _dick_.

It's a good thing that Ryan loves him.

Shane clears his throat, more for dramatic effect than anything else, and starts reading. “Message received, 1:02PM: ‘Shane, don’t come over’- good start, you were doing really well up until this point- ‘’m griss and disgusitdh’. I’m assuming you meant ‘I’m gross and disgusting’, but still…”

Ryan’s not paying attention.

Ryan’s not paying attention because, in the soft blue light of his phone screen, Shane Madej is just about the most beautiful person Ryan has ever seen.

Light has been his enemy all goddamn day, but it seems like now it’s finally decided to call a truce, because this light doesn’t hurt. This light doesn’t make him any woozier than he already is. This light is definitely a _good_ light, because it’s illuminating Ryan’s boyfriend, letting him see the slight hint of stubble on his jaw and casting rays of light through his goddamn drop-dead _gorgeous_ eyes, and Ryan’s very aware that he’s probably staring at Shane like he’s an ill, love-stricken fool, but he doesn’t even give a shit because it’s a very accurate description of his current state.

He _is_ an ill, love-stricken fool, and his very loving, very wonderful, very sweet boyfriend who may or may not be WebMD in the flesh is reading aloud Ryan’s disastrously written texts from earlier, and Ryan can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by it.

He does try to gently hit Shane in the leg, though, but that’s more out of habit than anything else.

Shane, to his credit, stops reading the texts after that.

“See?” he says, flourishing his phone at Ryan, “Nonsense texts. Nonsense. All of them. You’re lucky I know you well enough to decipher them.”

Ryan grumbles something under his breath. He’s not sure _what_ , but he definitely grumbles, and Shane definitely hears it.

“Yeah, I get it, grumble grumble,” Shane mutters back, but he’s rolling his eyes and smiling faintly and his hand is still petting absently through Ryan’s hair. “Stay here, grumbly baby. I’m gonna go get you a glass of water, alright?”

That sounds… that sounds like a _brilliant_ idea. Ryan had got himself a glass of water earlier but he’s pretty certain it’s empty now, and even if it wasn’t he doesn’t actually know where it is. He would say it was on his nightstand, but he hadn’t encountered it during his earlier flailing, so he’s really completely lost. But no matter. Because Shane’s here, which means that Shane will sort everything out.

Ryan snuggles himself further down into the blankets when Shane stands up, running a hand through his hair one last time before turning for the door. Ryan manages to shut his eyes tight before the door swings open and bathes the whole room in light this time, and when he opens his eyes again Shane’s already back, glass of water in hand.

There’s a straw in it.

Ryan didn’t even know he _had_ straws in his apartment.

Shane sits back down where he had before, and holds the glass of water out for Ryan. “Drink,” he says softly, and then bats Ryan’s hand away when Ryan tries to reach out for the glass. “No, Ry, put your hands away. I see your little blanket-burrito, alright? Stay in there, I’ll just hold it for you.”

It’s a sweet gesture, and not one that Ryan would have thought to made. It feels a little strange, drinking water while lying on his side in bed, but he can’t deny that he’s comfortable, and he _knows_ that had he tried to hold the glass they would have ended up with a whole load of broken glass and probably a wet blanket too. This is better. It’s _easier_.

Shane puts the glass aside when Ryan’s done, and his hand returns to Ryan’s hair almost instantly.

“You up to eating dinner?” Shane asks, and after a moments contemplation Ryan shakes his head. The thought of eating anything just makes him feel even more nauseous than he already is, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to risk anything by testing his stomach’s current limits. “Alright,” Shane says, and leans down to press a fleeting kiss to Ryan’s cheek. Ryan can’t help but smile at it, but it’s a smile that quickly fades when he realises something.

He’s ill.

He’s _very_ ill.

He’s very ill and now Shane Madej, his wonderful boyfriend who may or may not be WebMD in real life, is going to get ill too, because Ryan is very certain that he is a walking – well, _reclining_ – biohazard, and Shane just kissed him.

Which was definitely sweet, seeing how awkward the angle must have been and how gross Ryan is sure he looks, but _still_. Shane’s going to get ill, and that is simply unacceptable.

Shane, however, doesn’t seem to have realised this, because almost immediately after the cheek kiss he curls his fingers in Ryan’s hair and presses a kiss to his forehead instead. And Ryan loves it, he really, _really_ does, but at the same time…

At the same time, he doesn’t want to be the reason his boyfriend ends up feeling just as shitty as he’s been feeling all day.

Which means he has to put an end to it.

Which _sucks_.

“Stop it,” Ryan manages to force himself to say. “You’re- you shouldn’t- you should go home, Shane.”

Shane pauses his kisses. “…Why?”

“Because you’re gonna get sick if you keep kissing me. Or just, y’know, hanging out around me.”

“Worth it,” Shane replies immediately, and Ryan feels him press a kiss to the curve of his jaw. It makes him cringe a little bit, because he _knows_ how horrifically gross he must be, but Shane doesn’t seem to mind and Ryan simply doesn’t have the energy to move away, so he doesn’t. “You looked so sad and uncomfortable, baby – I couldn’t just let you suffer on your own.”

Ryan wants to say _So instead we’ll just suffer together?_

He wants to say _You shouldn’t have to get ill too_.

He wants to say _You don’t have to do this for me_.

But he’s ill, and he’s tired, and he _tries_ , but all he manages is a quiet, meaningless mumble.

“It’s alright,” he hears Shane say from beside him, and there’s a little flurry of movement and a moment later he feels a cold flannel press to his forehead, and he sighs. _God_. It feels so good. It feels so good it should probably be illegal, because after a long day of tossing and turning and kicking the covers off and pulling them back on he _finally_ feels like he’s the right temperature all over. His body is nice and toasty below the covers – and he’s a little _too_ warm, sure, but he doesn’t feel like he’s being baked alive by his own trapped body heat any more so he’ll count it as a win – and his head is so wonderfully cold he actually shivers a little in delight, and feels Shane run a hand up and down his blanketed back in response. He doesn’t even know where Shane got the flannel _from_ , but he really, _really_ can’t bring himself to care. “Feel better?” Shane asks, and Ryan mumbles a sound that close enough resembles agreement that Shane seems to accept it, because there’s soon another kiss being pressed to the top of his head. “Yeah, I thought so. Don’t try and move around too much, Ry – I’m home now, so I’m gonna look after you. You just let me know if there’s anything you need. I’m right here.”

It’s absurd, how much those three words comfort Ryan. He manages to crack a tiny smile, and it’s clear that Shane sees it from the soft laugh that Ryan hears a brief moment later. He opens one eye, just a little bit, and watches Shane laugh in the dim light of the bedroom.

He’s beautiful.

Even in the dim light, he’s just… beautiful. It’s dark enough that Ryan can’t make out most of his features, can’t make out the individual strands of his hair or the colour of his eyes, but the faint streetlight filtering in around the drawn curtains seem to halo him, catching on his hair and on the frame of his glasses and on the slope of his nose and casting their edges in amber and gold.

Ryan’s sure that, were he more conscious, coherent, and significantly _less_ ill, he’d be thinking some decidedly unbearably cheesy things about Shane right now. But as it is he’s still very ill, and his head hurts and all of limbs are uncomfortably heavy, so instead of thinking anything pathetically sappy he just looks at Shane, and smiles, and listen to him laugh.

It’s nice.

It’s really nice, and it’s also making Ryan realise that he hadn’t noticed just how much he actually missed having Shane around today until this moment.

Because now that Shane’s here… now that Shane’s here, Ryan’s really not sure why he _ever_ thought it was a good idea to text Shane telling him to stay away until Ryan got better. Just having Shane around, having Shane in his space and in his apartment and sitting next to him on the bed is enough to make Ryan feel noticeably better, and it may just be all in his head but he _does not care_.

He wants more Shane. He wants Shane _closer_.

Mostly, he thinks, he just really, _really_ wants to cuddle him.

“…Shane?” His voice is soft, or as soft as he can make it around his horribly sore throat, and it’s enough to make Shane fall silent instantly.

“What is it?”

Wordlessly, Ryan lifts an arm, and makes a tiny beckoning gesture.

Shane, bless him, gets it immediately. “Oh,” he says, “Oh, alright.” There’s no hesitation in his movements as he joins Ryan on the bed, shuffling Ryan backwards so that they both fit, and he’s so warm it almost _hurts_ but Ryan doesn’t care – he just lets Shane wrap himself around Ryan’s blanket-burrito’ed form, long arms enveloping his body, and tucks himself up against Shane’s chest as best he can.

Ryan is _boiling_ , and he doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care because after a long, _long_ day of feeling gross and uncomfortable and hot and cold and shivery all at once he finally feels… stable. Like his body is actually getting the hang of the whole ‘being one temperature all over’ thing. The flannel on his forehead still feels wonderfully cold and beneath his blankets he’s now almost comfortably warm, but the best bit… the best bit, really, is that Shane is here.

Because Ryan’s a sap, so _of course_ that’s the best bit.

He sighs, and snuggles in a bit closer. He might mock Shane on a daily basis for being a tall, gangly noodle-man of Sasquatch-like proportions, but he’s never been more grateful for it than now, because thanks to those absurd, overly-long arms, Shane can still hold Ryan even around the layers upon layers of blankets that form the blanket burrito. It’s not _quite_ the same as them both cuddling under the covers, but it’s close enough. It’s warm, and it’s comfortable, and Shane still smells like his aftershave and like _himself_ , and after spending a solid day surrounded by the smell of his own illness Ryan couldn’t be more delighted with the change.

He turns his head, shuffles around a bit, and manages to tuck his head right up against the crook of Shane’s neck.

 _Fuck, yes_.

It’s perfect. This is perfect.

The room is dark and Shane is here and Ryan is feeling actually, properly drowsy for the first time in what feels like – and very possibly _is_ – actual _hours_ , and it’s fucking _perfect_.

He doesn’t even notice that his eyes have fluttered closed until Shane speaks again.

“This good, baby?” Shane asks quietly, and Ryan hums a confirmation. “Alright,” Shane continues, and presses a tiny kiss to Ryan’s forehead, before lifting a hand to start running it through Ryan’s sweaty hair. “Go to sleep, Ry. I’ve got you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this! If you have any fic requests or prompts please let me know by sending me an ask over at my [tumblr](https://crunchywrites.tumblr.com/)!


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